


The Fuzzies

by twistedchick



Category: Ghost and the Darkness (1996)
Genre: 1890s, Adventuring, British in Africa, Family, Gen, Tsavo, ants in Africa, colonial bridge-building, man-eating lions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:21:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27731455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedchick/pseuds/twistedchick
Summary: John and Helena's baby wants to play with his favorite soft toys.
Relationships: Colonel John Henry Patterson/Helena Patterson, Helena Patterson & Samuel (The Ghost and the Darkness)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 4
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	The Fuzzies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [escritoireazul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/escritoireazul/gifts).



The slanting sun of autumn leaned in through the windows of the house, though the breeze outside felt cool on the skin. Helena had lit a fire in the sitting room and sat near it with a small lamp alight on a table so that she could see better to sew. The baby, who had been born while John was building a bridge in Africa, was now an adventurous toddler who had torn a hole in the knee of his trousers, and she was repairing it. Children do these things, she thought, but that’s how they learn.

It was one of those days when John said very little. She had come to expect that, after some of his adventures, he might find it difficult to adjust to ordinary life again, but this was the only effect, and she gave him room to speak or not.

John was staring into the fire’s leaping flames. “I had a dream of you, before you came to Africa,” he said at last. “It was in the middle of the hunt.”

“What was I doing in your dream, my dearest?” she asked, careful not to ask more. She knew that when he said ‘the hunt’ he meant the grinding months-long pursuit of the killer lions.

“You were arriving on the train, with the baby, and you were walking on the platform – and I could see the lion coming toward you through the tall grass – and I ran, but -” He blinked, turned away from the fire to look at her. “But you’re here now. That’s what matters. And Bryan is growing so big, too.”

“And you’re here. That’s what matter to me,” Helena told him. A thought occurred to her. “How did you know it was a dream, when it happened?”

“Besides the fact that it woke me up?” John paused a moment, then smiled at her, that rich warm smile that made her feel wrapped in his love like a warm blanket in a cold winter. “Your hair was down.”

“My hair was down?”

He nodded. “How long have we known one another? I’ve never seen you with your hair down in public, and you certainly wouldn’t have left it down to have the dust of Africa blown into it.”

Helena smiled and nodded. “That would have been difficult to deal with. I probably couldn’t just brush it out, and there wasn’t a lot of water – unless you were going to go wrestle some away from the hippocampus.” 

“Hippopotamus. River horse, from the Latin,” he said, almost as a reflex. 

Helena smiled. She was teasing him, and he knew it; she had studied Latin as part of her university work.

John cocked an eyebrow at her. “And no, I wouldn’t care to try to saddle and ride one.”

“You know that I like to have my hair clean.” She considered, a smile playing on her lips, as she watched him. “Perhaps I should have done as the women of the countryside did, and gone down to the river at night to wade in and wash it.”

“I doubt you’d be able to do that alone. If nothing more, you’d need someone to keep away the crocodiles, snakes, and so on.”

“Oh well, it’s just as well that I kept it tied up when I was there. It stays clean and untangled so much longer.”

“Unless, that is, you have a husband nearby to tangle his fingers in it. And to find a bucket of water for you, so you can wash it. And to help you comb it out afterward.” His eyes were dark, remembering.

“I wouldn’t want just any husband, you know. I’m rather particular about that, and so many other things.”

“As I would expect from the first woman to receive a law degree in the United Kingdom.” John reached across to take her hand and lift it to his lips. He nibbled lightly at her fingertips, a maneuver that he knew made her thrill to her core. 

She glanced at the clock. Did they have time? Perhaps –

And then she heard the footsteps of the baby’s nurse, Patsy, coming in from the hallway, carrying young toddler Bryan, at just that instant.

“The young master’s ready for bed,” Nurse Patsy said, “all washed and brushed. But he wanted to play with ‘the fuzzies’ first.”

“Let’s not interfere with his playing with the fuzzies, then,” Helena finished the knot she was sewing in the back of the cloth, finishing her mending job, and put it aside on the small table by the lamp. She poked the needle into a small pincushion, tucked that into her small sewing basket, and reached up for her son.

“Oh, missus, you should have let me do that!” Patsy eyed the repaired pants. “I could have done it while he was down for his nap.”

“I don’t mind,” Helena assured her. “It wasn’t a very big tear. Hello, Bryan!” She cuddled him in her arms as John looked on, beaming. “Give me a hug, and you can go play with the fuzzies.”

The toddler turned in her arms to hug her around the neck, and she could smell that sweet just-washed-baby smell, and held him close. But within a moment he pushed away from her to scramble down to the toe-warming rug over the hardwood floor. He steadied himself with a hand against the chair while she kept her hands on his shoulders., then pushed off, her hands guiding him, to walk carefully a couple of feet away from her toward John, whose hands stretched out to guide him where hers could not reach. When he reached the place he wanted to be, he crouched, and then sat down, grabbing onto what he called the “fuzzies”: the insides of the ears on the head of a lion-skin rug.

“Fuzzies! Fuzzies!” he said. His little fingers grabbed at the soft thick fur inside the lion’s ears.

“Yes, very fuzzy,” John agreed with a smile. “Most likely the only soft and fuzzy part of those beasts. Lions aren’t known for being particularly fluffy, you know.”

“I thought most of them had ... collars? No, manes,” Patsy said, curious.

“The ones from further south in Africa have magnificent manes, just like the pictures in books, but the ones in the north where I was don’t always have them.”

“Maybe it’s how they adapted to the heat?” Helena mused. “I know if I were there all the time, I would not want to have something like an enormous thick fur collar around my neck and shoulders. Far too heavy and tiring.”

“I don’t know,” John admitted. “Maybe that’s something our son will figure out when he grows up.” He sat down on the floor next to Bryan. “You like the lions, Bryan?”

“Liiiines. Fuzzy liiins.” Bryan gummed a smile at his father, all six teeth showing.

“Well, there you have it. Maybe he’ll be a scientist, studying lions,” Helena said. “Or a zookeeper?”

“He can be whatever he wants.” John beamed with pride at his son, who had no idea he was sitting on the neck of one of the fiercest man-eating lions ever known. The skin of the other one was laid out in John's study, taking up most of the floor, and, truth be told, it was a comfort to know that’s where it was. The skulls of the two lions rested upon a shelf on display nearby, along with a silver bowl the workmen had given John in thanks for his shooting the lions that had been preying on them.

Helena had been pleased that the skulls had no odor. She hadn’t been sure what they might smell like, didn’t want to think about it. John had told her about the cavern of skeletons one night, and it had made her shiver and move closer to the fire, with his arms around her. But the bones of the lions who had collected bodies in that cave – the bones of the predators – did not smell of anything. 

* * * 

Helena had first encountered the skulls while she was visiting John in East Africa. One day after breakfast, John had taken the baby to show him the bridge, which meant, of course, that he would be showing his son off to the workmen. All of the workmen that she had met had been friendly and polite to her and the baby, and this was a good time for John to talk with them about their families, about what would happen very soon when the bridge was completed. But instead of going with John this time, she had accompanied John’s friend Samuel, the local man whom everyone seemed to know and regard as a friend. 

Helena had met Samuel when she arrived, and liked him. He had been friendly, dignified, and absolutely at home everywhere, talking with all of the people around them. But he had also been interested in her, asking questions about her life in Britain, which no one else had done.

On this morning, Samuel had walked with her along the line of tents, and then took a turn away from it into an open area in the tall grass, away from the tents. It looked as if the grass had been burnt off recently, and new growth just starting. 

“I would not take you into the bush, not without John,” Samuel had said. “Too dangerous.”

“More lions?” she had asked.

“No. Leopards have been seen. But they are not likely to come into an open area like this, because we can see them coming. And I have John’s second gun. He has had me shooting with it for a while.”

She had nodded. “I don’t feel unsafe.”

“It is always best to be cautious,” he had replied, and she could not disagree. 

In the midst of the open burnt grassland there was an anthill a couple of feet tall and some smaller ones around it. Samuel had pushed the sandy ground of the smaller ones aside with his walking stick to show the skulls, which had been just under the surface. He picked one up, using the stick to brush away the last of the scurrying ants. 

“How long did you have to leave them there?” she had asked, looking at the pale bone and the length of the teeth.

“A few days.” He had handed her it to her to hold while he brushed off the second. “It feeds the ants, but it also keeps them from wandering into the camp in search of food.”

The skull was large in her hands, and heavy, with most of the weight in the jaws and teeth. She turned it over to see the hole at the base, where the neck bones had been; there was nothing inside the cranium now. And the bones themselves could not say why the lions had done what they had.

“Why do you think they were killers?” she had asked. 

Samuel had considered the question for a moment. 

“There is an old story, well known.” He pointed to a long path, curving along the river and crossing the dry area in the valley near it. “This is where the caravans have traveled, as long ago as anyone can remember, carrying trade goods from over there up to there.” He had pointed out the directions, and she felt she could almost have seen the swaying camels, the mules, the horses carrying their burdens, with armed outriders as guard. Before she could get caught up in the romance of it, he spoke again.

“Some of the caravans were slave caravans. It had been this way since before anyone could remember.” Samuel’s dark eyes had been grave. “Tsavo means ‘place of slaughter’; it is where the slave masters left those who were dead, or too weak to survive.” His mouth had set in a solid line as he had shaken his head. “Given that, it is not a surprise that there were two man-eaters. Perhaps it is a surprise that there have only been two.” He had paused. “But the slave traders were stopped by the British. And these lions may not have been born then. So, I wonder if their parents taught them, or something else happened.” He shook his head. "And with so many workmen gathered here, perhaps it was too much of a temptation."

Helena had run her fingers tentatively over the long, sharp incisors, each as long as her finger itself. Her breakfast had turned over in her stomach, unexpectedly. It had been all too easy to imagine the scene that Samuel was describing. “Were there others?”

“There may have been.” Samuel had frowned. “I do not know. I am not from here; I do not know the old stories of this area, only the stories that have traveled across the hills, there, where I am from.” He had pointed in another direction and she had nodded. They had turned to head back, and she had been comforted by knowing that Samuel was John’s good friend, and that Samuel was armed with John’s second rifle, just in case. She had handed the skull back to him, and he had put the two of them carefully into a sack that he had carried over the shoulder that was not the one where he had carried the rifle.

John had walked out from the camp to meet them, carrying the baby, as it was time for tea, a British custom even in Kenya. He had handed the baby off to Helena, and she had cooed at the child, who had waved his hands happily, as if he’d enjoyed being carried out to see the railroad, not that he would understand for years what that had meant to his father.

Samuel had shown John the skulls, which he had held in his hands and looked over, marveling at their size and the ivory polish of the clean bone. 

“See,” John had pointed at a broken upper tooth, “here’s where one of the bullets hit.” The corresponding tooth on the other side of the jaw had been long and sharp-pointed. John had handed them off to Samuel, who had spoken to one of the assistants nearby, who would pack them up to ship back home, along with the skins. 

They had sat down to drink their tea and eat some small cakes that tasted delicious, though Helena couldn’t identify anything about them. John had leaned back in his chair a little. “So, what do you think of Africa?”

She had looked around, at the broad ancient valley with its new railroad bridge almost finished, at the hills and the roads that went further than the eye could see. “There’s so much of it!” she said. “It feels so very old, and yet … it is so alive.” The words had felt inadequate to her, but Samuel had nodded, as if she had managed to capture in words something that was true and accurate and profound. His approval had made her feel warm, welcomed in a far deeper way than what she had felt from the British agents at the train station. 

“I can see why you like her,” Samuel had said to John. “She notices things.”

John had nodded, and smiled at her. “Yes, she does, all the time.”

And Samuel had smiled at her again and offered her more tea.

***

Helena was startled back to the present when her son, standing again, toddled over to her, grabbed her leg and put his arms out to be picked up. As she did so, she noticed the way the light caught the tips of the lion fur on the floor, and for a moment she saw again the tall golden grass of the African plains, waving slightly in the breeze, hiding whatever walked there -- and felt a shiver flutter all the way down her spine. Then her eyes focused once more upon the lion skin, so flat against the wooden floor, and she remembered they were at home, in a place where the grass was shorter and green, and there were no living lions outside of a zoo. She looked up at her husband and smiled, and cuddled Bryan.

When Mrs. Mudgely, the cook, brought in tea for them, there was a letter for John on the tray. 

“A messenger brought it a little while ago, sir, while I was making your tea,” Mrs. Mudgely said. “He said he didn’t have to stay for an answer, so I thought I’d bring it in now.”

“Thank you. Oh, currant buns and clotted cream!” John reached for one immediately. “Pleasure before business, especially where your tea is concerned, Mrs. Mudgely.”

“Of course I made them, them being your favorites.” The cook smiled at them all and went back to the kitchen.

Helena poured tea for both of them, and a cup of milk for little Bryan, which he grasped greedily in both hands as he gulped, though she steadied it for him. She juggled the toddler and her own teacup with care. “Do feel free to open your letter, John. I won’t mind.”

He picked up the envelope, and a small line appeared between his eyebrows at the return address. But he broke the seal and opened it. 

She saw him read it twice, his eyes skating across the words, before he put it down.

“They’re calling me back to Africa.” He couldn’t hide the excitement in his voice.

“Another bridge?” It was a huge place with many countries; of course they’d need more than one. 

“No, to lead a troop in South Africa against the Boers. I’ll have a little more time here, but not much.”

Helena knew from his expression that she’d be left at home again, with the baby. There was no room for her to visit if he was going to war, let alone for her to bring a toddler along.

John’s eyes wandered over toward the bookcase, and she could tell that he was already making plans for what to pack, which train to catch, where to meet the men he’d be commanding. She cleared her throat to get his attention. “Would you do one small thing for me, dearest, if possible?”

“Anything that I can.” He smiled at her, that big glorious smile that hid nothing.

“Stay away from lions this time.”

John shook his head slightly. “I’ll be too busy to hunt. And if there’s a war going on they’ll be far far away. In general, lions don’t like to be around people.”

Helena knew he would forget this. Once he was away from family and in a world of men, if he were asked on a hunt he would go. But for now he was with her, and she would treasure the memory of this golden afternoon, talking in front of the fire, and the shadowed night ahead in their big bed, against the long lonely time to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays! And I hope the next year is far better to you than this hard one has been.
> 
> Thanks to Sparks and to Zlabya for betaing this. 
> 
> I discovered in the course of research that Helena was the first woman to earn a law degree at a British university. And John Henry Patterson, in WWI, commanded the first entirely Jewish military unit since ancient times. He has been credited with the founding of the Israeli army, and for his contributions to Israel his remains and Helena's were moved from California, where they died, to Israel, and reburied with honors.
> 
> In real life, if the Pattersons had a son at the time of the building of the Tsavo bridge, he did not live to adulthood. Bryan Patterson was born in 1910, not 1898; he grew up to be a paleontologist at the Field Museum in Chicago. And at some point he asked his father to contribute the lion skins and skulls, which are there now. The skins had shrunk about a foot, as dried leather tends to do, but the taxidermied lions are still about nine feet long. And Samuel is right -- if you look at them, it is not like looking at anything else. Even a century and more after their deaths, it is too easy to imagine them moving out of the grass toward you with death in their minds.
> 
> The Wikipedia link on Col. Patterson is at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Henry_Patterson_(author)  
> His books are available for download at gutenberg.org.


End file.
